No Complaints
by Tobias Charity
Summary: Slash--Jack/Mike “It's all that kept me going, knowing that this beautiful, wonderful man was back there in the city, and I had had the privilege of loving him. Maybe I wasn't loved back, but hell, I loved him.” Sequel to SIaUH


Title: No Complaints  
  
Author: Tobias Charity  
  
Rating: PG-13? Yeah, definitely PG-13. A *strong* PG-13, for language and an implied sexual encounter.  
  
Pairing: Jack/Mike  
  
Series/Sequel: Sequel (?) to Simply Incredible and Utterly Horrible. This series needs a title. Ideas?  
  
Summary: "It's all that kept me going, knowing that this beautiful, wonderful man was back there in the city, and I had had the privilege of loving him. Maybe I wasn't loved back, but hell, I loved him."  
  
Disclaimer: What do I own? Not a thing.  
  
Author's Notes: Ack--Stef, I know you asked for a threesome, but it just couldn't happen in this one. I'm working on it, though, I promise! This. Is. SLASH! For those of you who don't know, and for those of you who managed to miss the warning in the summary, slash is a relationship between two men. If that makes you uncomfortable in any way at all, I suggest you leave. Now.  
  
Acknowledgements: Mary Sue, who put this little bunny in my head in the first place. Ted Forde, who I know I've mentioned somewhere before but is too great of an editor (and too nice a friend and teacher) to not put in here as well. WeezlLady, who I just feel like thanking, and for being an accidental beta reader and a wonderful person to bounce ideas off of, plus for e-mailing me all of those great sites...You've been indispensable! P.S. I still like my poem thing! Russell, who deserves all the thanks anyone can throw her way, just for being there, and I will swear under oath that I owe you my life, Russ.  
  
"There's tears on the pillow/Fallen where we slept/You took my heart when you left/Without your sweet kiss my soul is lost, my friend/Tell me how do I begin again/My city's in ruins/My city's in ruins."--Bruce Springsteen, My City of Ruins  
  
XXX  
  
I'm here. I'm finally here, back with the man that I lived with for six months, loved for even longer.  
  
Staten Island is a shit hole. It's about as low on the food chain as you can get. Every single day when I put on that uniform, when I walked my beat around the strip malls and fast food joints, when I finally went home to an empty apartment and the silence was enough to make me cry out in pure agony, I thought of Jack. I thought of Jack and what he'd done to me, and what I'd done to him. I'd focus on one aspect of Jack for a day, and think of nothing but him for hours on end. Then the next day I'd do the same, and the day after and the day after. It's all that kept me going, knowing that this beautiful, wonderful man was back there in the city, and I had had the privilege of loving him. Maybe I wasn't loved back, but hell, I loved him.  
  
And he called. He called me, not the other way around. But there were so many times when I wanted to buckle, wanted to give in and phone him, sobbing how sorry I was and how I'd do anything to get him back. But I'm not like that. I don't go crawling on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness. In this case, I don't think that I was the one that needed to be forgiven. But that's a debatable point.  
  
He stopped talking to me for three days straight, and all because of that councilman. He withheld everything, wouldn't even let me in the door. I think he spoke a total of ten words to me that entire time, and it was all about how he couldn't see me, the media attention on me was too close and it would be far too easy for something about our relationship to slip out.  
  
I'd pounded angrily on his door at that, shouted and banged at the impassive wood with my fists, calling him every name in the book and saying how all he cared about was his career. He could care less about me.  
  
I finally yelled at him through the door, because I knew that he was on the other side, standing with his back against the door, the knob probably digging into his back like he had complained about every time I backed him up against it. I screamed how he was a cynical hardass and how he deserved to roast in hell for all of eternity, and then left. I slammed the apartment building door after me, slammed it so hard the glass in the window shattered. Had to pay for that, too.  
  
He was there, the day I was shipped out. He was waiting on the pier when I arrived. He shook my hand and whispered in my ear how he forgave me. I said nothing, only turned and boarded the ferry. I watched him, though. I watched him the entire way to the island, and even when it would've been long past possible for me to see him, I knew he was still there, watching me watching him.  
  
And then yesterday, he called.  
  
I knew it was him the instant I picked up the phone and heard that voice which had haunted my dreams for the past four years. I'd memorized the sound of his voice, and played back the audio in my head every time I felt that I was starting to drown in loneliness again.  
  
And I came. I came to New York City to spend Christmas with my lover. Sorry, former lover.  
  
But oh, God...when I saw him for the first time in years, when I stepped through that office door and saw that familiar sterling-haired head bent in concentration over a stack of papers, saw that elegant frame contorted in an odd position on the floor, too wrapped up in his work to be uncomfortable...It took every ounce of self-control I had to stop myself from leaping on him and ravishing his body right there.  
  
So I contented myself with a handshake. I could see myself reflected in those eyes of his, those eyes which so often seemed cold and soulless but in reality were burning, flaring with a fiery passion that he only exhibited in the courtroom or to me.  
  
I could also see what I was doing to him, how this strong man who was rarely at a loss for words could barely speak, could hardly stand upright. So we left.  
  
And the elevator was empty.  
  
Oh, come on, you're telling me that if you were in an empty elevator with Jack McCoy, *you* wouldn't have kissed him?  
  
Yeah, well...  
  
I kissed him. I kissed the bastard so hard I thought my lip was going to split in two. I wrapped my arms around his wiry body and crushed those lips with my own, bruising and forceful with the sheer passion of it all. He reached back and grabbed my hair, pulling my mouth down harder on his.  
  
Damn that elevator bell. I hope those two lawyers had some fucking important business if it was enough to interrupt Jack and me.  
  
But the goddamn bell went off and we flew to separate sides of the elevator, almost as if nothing had ever happened, as if his tongue hadn't been six inches down my throat less than ten seconds ago. I could see him tenderly fingering his swelling lip and I laughed to myself.  
  
I couldn't wait until dinner.  
  
And now, here we are, in my car, stuck in traffic. We haven't moved in about ten minutes, and every so often I clench the wheel a little harder and let out another curse or two at the cars ahead of me. He's staring out the window, chin propped up on his hand, forehead leaning against the glass. I sneak a glance at him and can't help but wonder what I did to deserve him. I have to say something, anything and break this stifling silence that's suffocating me.  
  
"You look tired."  
  
Damn, that wasn't what I wanted to come out. "I've missed you," sure, even, "So how's your new assistant?" But no, I had to tell him he looked tired.  
  
Jack turns slowly in his seat, one expressive eyebrow quirked up slightly. "*I* look tired?" He repeats, and there's an undercurrent of laughter in his voice that I hadn't expected to hear.  
  
I allow a small smile to creep onto my face. "Yeah...well..."  
  
"Mike," he says, in that gravelly voice of his. "If you keep on looking at me like that, I'm not going to be held responsible for any deaths that occur as a result of me fucking your brains out right here in this car."  
  
Oooh...oh. Well, can't say the thought doesn't appeal to me, but I'd much rather stay alive for the duration of my visit here. So I just nod and smile and turn back to face the road, but I can't help but notice that he's clutching his seatbelt so hard his knuckles are turning white. So he's having a little problem keeping his hands off me too, eh?  
  
We sit in traffic for another ten minutes, and then a road miraculously opens up and we're home free, driving as fast as it's possible to in the center of New York.  
  
"You remember where my apartment is..." It's more of a statement than a question, but I still nod.  
  
"Yeah. I'm not going to forget where my old home is."  
  
Oh, gee, I think I just threw him for a loop. Good to see I haven't lost that particular skill yet.  
  
"Turn." I'm poked hard in the shoulder and I jerk the wheel slightly, and we're in that familiar parking lot again.  
  
"C'mon..." Jack's out of the car faster than I thought was possible for a nearly sixty-year old prosecutor, and he's flung my door open and is yanking on my arm like an eager puppy.  
  
"Jack, what's with you tonight?" I laugh, following him obligingly. He just grins at me and suddenly we're in front of that door that I pounded on so many years ago.  
  
Jack's got this look in his eyes, this hungry, starving look that seems to leave marks wherever it roams across my body. He gives me one last, longing gaze before unlocking his apartment door and flinging it open.  
  
I push him through the door, then whirl around and slam it closed, shoving him up against it and crushing his lips with my own. My hands grip his shoulders, then slip down and run down his spine for a moment, before grabbing his ass of their own accord. His breath is hot and sweet, panting against my neck as his mouth slides across my jaw line and down my neck to suckle at that small spot right above my collarbone that he still remembers...  
  
"Oh, God, Jack..." I moan hoarsely, breathlessly as he raises a knee and it gently collides with the erection I've been sporting ever since the elevator. "Jack, stop--"  
  
He pulls back and looks me squarely in the eye, and his eyes have gone from that cold black that I knew so well to a flaring, burning color somewhere between onyx and obsidian. "Can you honestly tell me that you don't want this as much as I do?" He asks huskily, each word sounding labored.  
  
"You know I want it," I respond, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the living room, then pushing him down into a chair and seating myself on the couch. "But we gotta talk."  
  
He stands up and takes a step towards me, but I raise a threatening finger and point back at the chair. "Sit."  
  
He sits, looking thoroughly unhappy.  
  
"Now," I say, crossing my arms and leaning back against the cushions of his brown leather couch. "Now you explain."  
  
He raises one expressive eyebrow in a questioning manner. "Explain?"  
  
"Why I'm here, Jack!" I explode, gesturing around at his brown and green furnished, book-laden apartment. "Why I'm in New York, why you called, why I'm sitting here on your couch trying to keep you from sucking my tongue out of my mouth."  
  
He smiles beatifically. "Now *that's* a great mental image."  
  
"You're attempting to control the situation again, Jack. Just like you always do. One of these days I'm just going to tie you down and not let you move, and--" I stop suddenly. I'm giving him what he wants, and right now, that's the last thing I need. We have to talk things over.  
  
"How about over dinner?" It's as if he was reading my thoughts. He stands up and heads towards the door. I notice that he still has his coat on, as do I.  
  
"We're going out?" I ask, stupidly. Jack turns and grins at me.  
  
"Unless you'd like reheated sweet and sour pork, yes Mikey, we're going out." He opens the door and gestures to the hallway, smiling slightly.  
  
"But--" I stutter, not moving from my position on the couch "Wha'd you bring me here for, if we were just going out again?"  
  
"I wanted to see if I read you right," he explains, and he's almost laughing now, though at what I can't tell. "I wanted to see if you needed me as badly as I needed you."  
  
That bastard. That complete and utter bastard. "You played me!"  
  
"And I did a damned good job of it, if I do say so myself. Now come on, Mike, I thought you wanted to talk."  
  
"Yeah. Talk. Right." I shake my head and stand up, following him out the door.  
  
XXX  
  
Jack is a man of many words. Give him a topic and he will ramble on for hours. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work that way tonight.  
  
"So," I say morosely, poking at a limp lettuce leaf in my salad. "Why?"  
  
"Why what?" Jack counters, not looking at me. "Why did I push you away, you mean?"  
  
"That whole media thing, about the focus being too close on me--was that really it?"  
  
"You still remember those words?" Jack looks up at me, an amazed expression gracing those sharp features. "You still remember exactly what I said to you?"  
  
I can't help but smile at him. That's what I miss, watching him respond to everything I say or do. I enjoy the hell out of expressive people, fuck, I enjoy the hell out of expressive lovers, and Jack McCoy is the paradigm of expressiveness. "You obviously do too," I quip. "Yeah, McCoy, I remember that night perfectly."  
  
His head drops and he stares blankly at the white tablecloth, mumbling something.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said," he repeats softly, looking back up at me. "I was afraid of that."  
  
I nearly laugh out loud at the expression on his face, but he looks too damn forlorn for me to even giggle. "Why's that?"  
  
He reaches across the small table and his hand gently brushes my cheek. I nearly jerk away, but not from revulsion. He's too damn close, too fucking close to me, and it's too hard to hide anything behind any sort of facade with him being so open. "You're never going to forgive me, are you, Michael?" He asks quietly, not removing his hand from my skin.  
  
I slowly stand up, pushing my chair in. "I'm not sure if I'm the one that needs to do the forgiving."  
  
He follows my lead, dropping a few bills on the table. "We'll see, Mike. Heading home so soon?"  
  
"Not my home. Yours."  
  
XXX  
  
Jack's running his hands through my hair again. He's tangling his fingers in the mahogany strands and it's driving me wild with arousal. He used to do this all the time, after we'd had sex. It was a normal part of our post-coital routine. We'd sit there, on the bed or the couch or the floor or the shower or wherever the hell we happened to be, and lean against one another, weaving our hands through the other's hair. I love his hair, so thick and silver, well on its way to sterling. He used to tease me, whenever he caught me staring in the mirror and making faces at the small spot of gray at my temples. "Irish silver," is what he called it. I shut up after that, just laughed and brushed it off. Reminded me of our mortality, though, and just how close it is. Closer to some of us more than others.  
  
"Mike," he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against my ear, sending small shivers of electricity tingling up my spine. His voice always does that to me, that smoky mixture of grating and harshness and all that hidden passion.  
  
"Yeah?" I murmur back, wrapping my arms more firmly around his waist and leaning back against the headboard of his bed.  
  
"You do realize tomorrow is Christmas, don't you?"  
  
I shoot a glance over at the glaring red numbers of his clock. "Technically, you're wrong."  
  
"Oh?" Jack arches one formidable eyebrow and plants a soft kiss on my neck. "And tell me how I'm 'technically' wrong, Mikey."  
  
My breath freezes in my throat and I stare blankly at the top of his head, unsure of what to say. He notices my sudden silence and looks up at me.  
  
"What? What did I say?"  
  
I shake my head and pull away gently, my arms falling to my sides on top of the sheets. "Don't call me that."  
  
"Don't call you what?" He asks, sounding bewildered.  
  
"Mikey. Don't call me that."  
  
Both eyebrows are raised now, and he's looking very confused. Wow, I managed to confuse the great Jack McCoy. I think that's a first. "Why the hell not?"  
  
"Because," I say, and I can hear my voice cracking slightly. I swallow and try again. "Because I'm going to miss it when you stop."  
  
He leans his head on my chest and I absently wrap an arm around his shoulders. "What makes you think I'm going to stop?"  
  
I start to smile, then realize the seriousness of the situation. *Does he really think this can go on forever?* I ask myself, saying nothing out loud. *We're different people now. Doesn't he understand that?*  
  
"Mike?" He persists, rubbing one hand against the small of my back. "Mike, seriously, what makes you think I won't keep on calling you Mikey, and why the hell would it bother you if I stopped?"  
  
"Do you think I'll always be here, gracing your bed?" I ask him. "Do you think that this won't have to end eventually, because of something you let slip, or something that I do in public that will alert the entire city to our relationship? More importantly, do you really want to be Jack McCoy, the Gay DA?"  
  
"Oh, Mikey," he whispers, one slender finger tracing the side of my face. "I'm not the bastard I was. I'm not the jackass who will throw away one of the greatest relationships of his life, just for some moronic career that's probably already reached it's peak, anyways."  
  
I rest my head on his shoulder. "So we might be here forever..."  
  
"We very well may be."  
  
I can't say that I'm complaining.  
  
XXX  
  
A/N--Feedback makes TC a happy tomato. Feed me!  
  
--TC 


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